


Rose and Lion

by Ardatli



Series: The Dale Cycle [2]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Background Billy/Teddy, Crusaders!AU, Except Billy, Heather Dale, M/M, Mature rating is for violence, no sexytimes yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He set his jaw and closed his hand on William’s shoulder, and Will leaned into him for support. Thomas kept his voice low and measured. “Think about what they would do to us, your golden Hercules included, if they ever learned the truth. The noose, the pike, the pyre. Or if they’re feeling especially creative, all three in order.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“He’s not ‘my’ anything. And he wouldn’t-“ William protested and his eyes flickered to the laughing knights. Doubt killed the words still on his lips.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose and Lion

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Rose and Lion, by Heather Dale.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0knbU776yD0&feature=share&list=PL2kdjR4vw6B9Y7nDiAUmCs1lEAzQumVKr
> 
> Betaed by feebleapb and **x** andertheundead. All remaining mistakes are mine.

_We serve as those before us, and we teach it to our young;_   
_And fair the blooms who face the sky that from our soil have sprung._   
_And oft our deeds are roared aloud when honour’s praise is sung_   
_And the Rose and Lion stand and serve the King._

 

**Early September, 1201. The south of France.**

 

A week on the road with the Count of Methengau and his men, and Thomas was still catching William with his eyes trained upon Theodore.

When they woke in the mornings William scanned the men breaking down the camp until he found him. When they marched, Theodore’s green-clad form upon his sleek bay horse was ever in his sights, whether he fell back to speak with William and Thomas or not. When he rode on ahead again to rejoin his fellows William’s shoulders would sag a little in disappointment. Only then would he speak to Thomas with a voice untainted by distraction.

Because his idiot brother could not lose his mind for the first time over a student or a farm boy close to home. Or – for forbid things be _easy_ – any one of the girls that their parents had arranged for him to meet.

No, his idiot brother had to find himself besotted with the knight-marshal of a foreign noble, a Christian man sworn to the violent profession of his faith.

William might make noise regarding Thomas’ sense of self-preservation, but his own was worse by far.

Idiot.

\--

“Is it true, sir, that your brother can turn lead to gold?”

The boy hanging over the tree branch by his knees looked to be about thirteen, still slight and small but with a voice that cracked when he spoke. He bore the dragon-badge of Theodore’s arms on a favour looped around his belt. A squire, then. He stared at Thomas, upside down. The camp bustled around them as the sun set, tents raising and the pile of firewood growing in the centre.

“If that were true,” Thomas replied, some amusement spooling through his voice despite his intent, “do you think we would be walking with you?”

“Even rich men make pilgrimage, m’lord, if their sins be great enough.” The boy grinned wide and flipped himself up to grab the branch with his hands. He hung there for a moment then let himself drop, landing easily on the grass.

Thomas snorted. “Well-played, boy. But no; William is no alchemist.” At least, that was one that he had not yet consented to try. Better not to give them too many ideas.

“Arnould, m’lord. M’name is Arnould.” Then that same name was being shouted across the camp and the boy turned to go. With a grin and a flash of a salute he was in motion, running across the campsite smoothly as a bird in flight.

\--

“Is it true, sir, that the sun in England is always behind the clouds?”

“Yes,” Thomas replied, glancing up at the boy as he walked. Arnould rode a small horse from Theodore’s string, sitting the saddle as easily as if he had been born to it. And most likely he had. “The first time I saw sunlight was after we crossed the channel to France. It was shining out of King Phillip’s arse.”

Arnould threw back his head and laughed loud and long.

Thomas smiled.

\--

Arnould was from Frisea, in the Low Countries. ( _Awful cold in the winters; nothing like this at all, m'lord_ ).

His father was a knight ( _served the old Count with Sir Marcus, m'lord; that was Sir Theodore's father, God rest his soul. And so when I was ready to be a page, he took me on. In honour of our fathers_ ).

And he took to Thomas like a duck to water, becoming a shadow that Thomas could not shake.

Not that he put much effort into trying.

\--

“Sir Theodore says that I’m to study archery with Sir Barnabas next,” Arnould reported from what had become his usual perch outside the small tent that Thomas had finally given in and bartered for. “That I’ve grown enough to use a longbow.”

The squire's constant presence was familiar by now, his quick mind and keen curiosity piquing a kind of distant affection in Thomas that had been previously reserved for Aaron and for Jac-

For _Aaron_.

William alone of all his brothers held the whole of his heart.

“Do _you_ know how to shoot?” Arnould was persistent. If Thomas did not answer him now, he would face variations of the same question for at least the next two days.

“Well enough, but I’m no expert,” Thomas admitted, pegging the last of the guidelines in place that held the tent upright. He sat back on his heels and grinned. “But I’ll wager a penny that I can beat any shot of yours with a slingshot.”

\--

Thomas earned the penny fairly, knocking the apples from the tree in quick succession.

The brilliant smile on Arnould’s face when Thomas offered to consider the penny payment for lessons to improve his aim was a better prize.

\--

They made camp early one afternoon not far from Chasteaux. Gregory sent riders out to the town to resupply, the oxen growing lazy as the supply wagons they drew grew emptier. The French contingent was delayed. Outriders claimed to see the dust of their approach in the distance, but they were still two, perhaps three days out. It meant time to relax, to find local sources and resupply, to wash off the dust of the march and take their ease.

It took less than an hour for said ease-taking to become unbearably tedious. Once the tent was set and the necessaries accomplished, waterskins refilled from the stream, Thomas found himself adrift, William already elsewhere. Cheers and shouting rolled through the camp, the sounds of tournament and play, and for lack of anything better, Thomas found himself wandering in that direction.

The knights were assembled, half in surcotes and mail, half sitting by and watching. Theodore and Frederick were in the centre of the square thus formed, helms off and the squires arranged before them. Theodore’s sword flashed bright in the sun as he demonstrated a measure, the squires following his lead with varying degrees of skill. Frederick paced the ranks, adjusting bodies and arms as he went, the wooden blades wielded by the younger boys coming perilously close to his face on more than one occasion.

They broke off into pairs after that and the sun flashed bright off of armour, blade and helm. Theodore stepped back and watched with critical eye, pointing first here and now there to indicate flaws or progress. It all looked the same to Thomas.

There was shade under his tree and the cheers and cat-calls of the crowd of fighting men blurred into itself after a while, until the squires were released, sweaty and in some cases, bruised from falls and blows. Frederick clapped Theodore on the back and said something Thomas could not hear, which earned him a blow across the shoulder in return. Laughter rose from the ranks as the two men faced off, faces wide with grins. Some of the men lounging there sat up, anticipation making the camp thrum with some new tension.

Theodore and Frederick traded lazy blows with wooden blades for a moment, before Theodore broke away and made a gesture. Within moments one of his squires, a young man surely close to knighthood himself, came forward with helm and blade and painted shield, the golden dragon fierce upon the green. Frederick’s shield was white, a black wolf’s head embossed upon it.

Their visors down and faces hidden, they circled each other, bodies tense and ready. A feint, a clash of sword-on-shield and then they parted again. Frederick feinted and Theodore did not flinch, and Thomas found himself leaning forward to watch despite himself. They clashed again, and then a third, voices drowned out by the ringing noise of steel on steel.

 “Drache!” One of the squires began it and soon the rhythm spread. The scattered shouts from the watchers gave way to a steady chant, the pulse of the battle hammered out on shields with gloved fists and boot heels and the hilts of swords. “ _Drache, Drache, Drache-_ “

Theodore seemed to grow in size and hold his head higher under their approval and Frederick made an obscene gesture at the crowd.  Frederick dropped his head and shoulders and rushed, and Theodore stepped aside more nimbly than seemed possible. Theodore swung at him as he passed, delivered a stinging blow to Frederick's buttocks with the flat of his great blade.

Frederick fell and made to rise again but Theodore was on him in an instant, sword left on the ground. He sat his plated knee on Frederick’s chest to hold him in place, the weight of his body pressing him down into the sun-hot earth. Frederick flipped up his visor and made a sign to yield, and yet Theodore’s fist rushed at his bare and unprotected face.

He stopped, less than a finger’s width before Frederick’s skin. Theodore, faceless behind his helm, uncurled one finger just enough to press the tip against Frederick’s nose. 

The roar that erupted was louder again than the chants of war had been, and Thomas snickered. He did not wipe the expression from his face when Arnould turned, laughter-bright, to catch his eye.

“Now back to work, the lot of you!” Theodore unbuckled his helm and pulled it off along with his arming cap, his yellow hair damp from sweat and sticking to his forehead. He pulled Frederick to his feet, and then drew his arm along his face, heedless of the metal and the mail, his smile a wild and joyous thing.

William was watching from the sidelines, half within the trees, his hood pulled up and his hands folded inside his sleeves. Thomas skirted the edge of the clearing to draw near to him, the crowd dispersing now that the entertainment was done.

A pair of pages ran past, wooden swords in hand and strings of their linen caps askew, their unbroken voices high and careless in their offenses.

"The Dragon will have those Saracen bastards on their knees!"

"Stand fast, you filthy heretic, and taste good Christian steel!"

Thomas flinched, the sun went behind a cloud, and the heat of the day fled from his bones. He stopped close beside William, who turned and acknowledged him with a nod.

“Taking in the view?” Thomas asked, his tone sharper than it should be. But there were circumstances.

“Thomas…” William’s warning was not the exasperated rejoinder Thomas had half-expected. His voice was sad and a little broken, and Thomas peered beneath the hood. William’s eyes were tired, dark shadows beneath them, and there was an ineffable sadness there.

Thomas abandoned all plans to tease or poke; William was no good outlet for his irritations like this. It would cause more harm than good were he to indulge. “What?” Thomas asked gently instead, and laid his hand on the back of William’s neck. The wool of his robe was coarse beneath Thomas’ hand.

William shook his head and looked again, and Thomas followed his eyeline back to where Theodore was laughing with his friends, passing a full waterskin between them. William turned away. “I’m trying to remember how to hate them,” he said, and anger flared in Thomas at the sound of longing in his voice.

Theodore turned, casting his gaze over the camp, pausing only when he saw them.

No, not 'them.' _William_.

He fixed his gaze, seemed about to call out, and William drew himself taller under Thomas' hand. Then Gregory clapped a hand on Theodore's shoulder, he turned away, and William sagged back again, seemingly unaware of his own reactions.

For a moment, however brief, Thomas wished he had his brother’s power. He would call it up and strike them down where they stood.

It was for the best, he reflected and not for the first time, that William had been the one with the gift. Better by far to divide the power from the will to use it.

Even so, this would never do. He set his jaw and closed his hand on William’s shoulder, and Will leaned into him for support. Thomas kept his voice low and measured. “Think about what they would do to us, your golden Hercules included, if they ever learned the truth. The noose, the pike, the pyre. Or if they’re feeling especially creative, all three in order.”

“He’s not ‘my’ anything. And he wouldn’t-“ William protested and his eyes flickered to the laughing knights. Doubt killed the words still on his lips.

“He would.” Thomas gripped William’s shoulders and stared into his eyes.

 _Taste good Christian steel_ _?_ _Not me and never you, as long as I draw breath._

“They all would. We have to smile and play our parts to live in their world, but don’t think for a minute that they would ever forgive us for it.”

He pulled the reminder around himself like armor.

\--

“M’lord Thomas!”

Thomas did not turn to look, keeping his feet to the fire and his eyes on William. “Off with you,” he growled at Arnould. “And keep yourself gone.”

\--

There were clouds the next day as they took to the march again, but not yet rain to stall their progress. The marching order was the same as it had been since the twins had joined the group; the Count and his closest retinue at the fore; William and Thomas in the middle with the foot soldiers; camp followers, cooks, supplies at the rear, guarded by the remaining mounted knights. Squires and pages rode and ran throughout, the smaller boys sitting on the oxen and the wagons and shouting at any that they might pass upon the road.

And more often than not, Theodore would fall back along the line, gentle his horse to walk no faster than a man, and engage Thomas and William in discussion. At first it was only for minutes at a time but as the days had passed the conversations had become longer, touching on kings and politics, trading tales of valour from the dusty books that William had memorized so long ago, to simple jokes about the men of their company.

It was not Theodore riding in time with them today but Gerhardt, a brute with shoulders broader than Thomas and William together, and a mass of coarse and curly hair that he kept bound with a leather thong. His jokes were not so well-intentioned.

“Come now friar, show us a miracle,” Gerhardt jeered, edging his horse closer to William. He had begun with questions that both twins had done their best to deflect, moved into imprecations, and now threats appeared to be the natural progression.

William stepped aside, his head high, and the set of his jaw marked his refusal to admit that he might be afraid.

“The greatest miracle I could do would be to convince you to bathe occasionally,” he retorted. Thomas saw his fists ball up within his sleeves, the faint blue pulse that suggested William’s temper was close to fraying.

Gerhardt’s expression became thunderous and he dragged on his horse’s reins to swing its head about. Thomas grabbed for William’s arm. As much as he would enjoy seeing the brute fall, here and now was not the place. “Brave sir knight,” Thomas mocked, hot on William’s heels; if he could pull Gerhardt’s attention away from Will- “Ready to attack unarmed men from atop your horse.”

The horse reared at Gerhardt’s command and Thomas braced; Theodore was between them in an instant, on his green-draped bay. He grabbed for Gerhardt’s reins and twisted them in one leather-gloved hand. He cuffed Gerhardt on the back of his head and said something harsh and guttural in the barbaric language of the Rhine, to which Gerhardt made little reply.

Gerhardt dug in his spurs and turned his horse around, riding up to the front of the line once more.

“My apologies,” Theodore said, looking from one to the other with something like chagrin. “And his. The men are restless… it should not have happened. I’ll make sure it does not happen again. Gerhardt is a good man,” he continued, his eyes pleading with them to understand. “But he’s not as funny as he thinks himself to be.”

“No harm done,” William muttered, the tension draining from his body as he looked up at Theodore. Something passed between them, wordless. Theodore turned his horse and rode away slowly, casting a look back over his shoulder to watch them as he went.

William growled low. "How can he be so loyal to those who deserve it least?"

“Because Theodore is a knight and a man of his word,” came a deep voice from behind them. Thomas startled, whipped around to see who had managed to come upon them unawares. It was Sir Heinrich, distant, kind; for all that he seemed older and less dangerous than many, his horse moved on silent feet.

William frowned, but Heinrich held up a hand and continued to speak. “They five,” he gestured toward the front of the line, where Count Gregory was flanked by his lieutenants, two on either side. “Were fostered together as boys. They were squires together, trained together, fasted for knighthood together. And now Gregory is lord and his companions serve him with honour and pride.”

There were warnings in his words, and William seemed disinclined to heed them. “A man’s character is shown through the company he keeps,” he shot back, his words an arrow leaving the bow.

Heinrich’s face was impassive as he replied. “And by the oaths that he keeps, he protects his immortal soul.” All of which assumed, of course, that a man had a soul to protect in the first place.

There was little to say where the conversation might have gone following that, for the arrows that flew from the woods took them utterly by surprise.

A soldier fell at Thomas’ feet, a blue-fletched arrow lodged in the flesh of his throat. He looked surprised, as the blood pooled beneath him and the light faded from his eyes, and then there was no more time to think because the air was thick with arrows.

“Get down!” Thomas flung himself at William and knocked him flat, covered William with his own body long enough for the first volley to be over. It would take a few seconds to load, assuming they only had one line of archers, and who could be firing upon them? Bandits? The French?

William pushed him off and scrambled to his feet. Thomas found himself crouched behind a foot soldier with a shield, the arrows glancing off the edge as the second volley hit. William was scrambling back and had managed to get a shield in his hands to protect himself, and then Thomas lost him in the crush.

Men swept down on them, faced now with mounted knights and the squires with their pikes, no mark of any king or army on their bodies. Bandits, then. Thomas had his knife in his hand, struck and parried as one rushed at him, sword out and shield before him. He saw an opening and struck, buried his knife hilt-deep into flesh and innards, blood spilling hot and slick over his hand as he withdrew.

Another and another came and he kept fighting, the sounds of swords and hooves and shouting filling his ears with meaningless noise that drowned out everything else.

One thing got through, a familiar scream, and Thomas looked up in time to see it, but too far to intervene. Arnould was braced with his pike but the horse kept coming, coming at him from the side where his pike would do no good. The boy whirled, tried to keep his weapon steady with shaking hands and Thomas was running but there was too much ground to cover and it was treacherous with the bodies of dead and dying men. The sword flashed high, the sun breaking through the clouds to catch the edge.

It descended.

Thomas screamed.

The bandit never saw the blow that took his head, the Dragon’s sword faster yet than his.

Theodore leaned over in the saddle as deeply as he could, seized Arnould below the arms and hauled him over the saddle before wheeling to ride away. His mail gleamed silver in the sun, his visor down to protect his eyes, but he was not armoured full for battle and his twisting reach had shifted the bottom of his hauberk to leave his thigh exposed.

The black-fletched arrow found its mark.

The fletching and the blood were the last that Thomas saw of Theodore before the battle rush closed over him again.

\--

As prepared as they assumed themselves to be, even a force of bandits one hundred strong proved no match for Gregory’s mounted knights and their retinues. When all was done and the camp hastily remade, wounds dressed and bodies numbered, there were only five of their own among the dead, to more than threescore of their attackers. A good proportion, Thomas thought uncharitably, as he washed the blood and dirt from his arms. William sat in uncharacteristic silence beside him, drawn and pale.

“We won,” Thomas said, and William made no reply. “You were right,” Thomas said, because he never said such things and so William by his nature would have to respond. “We would be dead had we been travelling alone.”

William still said nothing, but nor did he have time to do so, for Sir Barnabas was rushing toward them with his eyes intent on William. “Come,” he barked the order, and Thomas fought the surge of anger at the presumption. “It’s time to earn your keep, friar,” Barnabas continued, his attention all on William. “Theodore is dying.”

Barnabas grabbed his arm and William went.

The tent was a small one, hastily erected to house the wounded and the dying. A half-dozen squires lingered outside with stricken faces, Arnould among them. As they ducked below the open flap, leaving the boys outside to wait for scraps of news, Thomas half-expected Barnabas’ exclamation to be proven an exaggeration.

The amount of blood upon the pallet, cloak and man suggested otherwise.

Theodore had been laid out upon the makeshift bed, his mail stripped off and tossed aside, his shirt, tunic and hose already half-soaked red. His face was pale as the grave and his knuckles whiter still where he gripped Heinrich’s hand. Fletching emerged from the wound in his leg, an arrow buried so deep into his flesh that only the feathers could be seen. There were veins in the leg that could kill a man in minutes if they were opened; Thomas knew that much. How many more such minutes did Theodore have?

“You’re a fool,” Gregory was leaning over him and grinding out the words as though each one was poison. “You should never have been there.”

Theodore’s reply was weak and wracked with pain, his breathing ragged and shallow. “I promised his father. You would do the same.”

The chirurgeon, an older man who rode in the wagons with the cooks, was bent over his leg. He had one hand upon the arrow, the other on a handle of a strange small and pointed spoon. “Brace,” he commanded, and Theodore screwed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw. Heinrich winced as Theodore’s hand tightened around his, but both held steady as the chirurgeon slid the spoon along the arrow shaft and deep into the wound.

Theodore arched and writhed, howled with pain as the doctor pushed the spoon in deeper, causing more blood to bubble up about the arrow. William pressed back against Thomas in the door of the tent, his gaze never wandering from the scene before them. The chirurgeon twisted his hand and Theodore fell still and silent, his head lolling back against the bed.

“Aha!” a pull of both together and the spoon and arrow emerged, the chirurgeon using the one to contain the vicious pointed barbs of the other.

Gregory stood, arms folded, watching the proceedings, the other three stationed about the tent with similar expressions of distress. Barnabas pushed William forward and he stumbled before he caught himself and moved toward the bedside.

“Wine,” the chirurgeon commanded, and when a wineskin was handed to him he poured the contents over Theodore’s thigh. The purple wine washed away a great deal of the blood, the gaping chasm underneath raw and red and deep. Theodore gasped and his eyes flew open; Heinrich pressing down against his shoulder to hold him steady.

“Do it, friar,” Gregory ordered, tension vibrating in his voice. “Heal him.”

William sank to his knees and placed his hands on Theodore’s naked thigh, the red of the blood and the purple of the wine dirtying his fingers in an instant. His lips began to move, and he must be out of his mind, because he had entirely forgotten- “ _William,_ ”Thomas hissed, and Will came back to himself. He looked, and Thomas looked back, and then he seemed to remember where he was and who he was supposed to be.

William crossed himself. He murmured in Latin. “ _Gloria patri, et filio, et spiritui sancto_ -“ and the knights echoed his prayer.

William closed his eyes and Thomas stepped up behind. He too pressed a hand to a shoulder, but this one was an anchor, a reminder that Thomas was there. William sank into himself, the light fading from his eyes to be replaced with that familiar angelic blue.

He murmured, his lips never ceasing in their movement. He stared into Theodore’s eyes and Theodore stared back at him, transfixed. William’s hands began to glow. There was a cry of surprise from one of the men, swiftly muffled, and William’s power surged.

The light enveloped his hands, soaked in to Theodore’s skin, the pumping pulse of red slowing, then stopping, the skin closing over the hole to leave it pink-skinned and newly-scarred.

There was a silent pause that seemed to last an hour, then Theodore drew in a ragged breath. His hand came up to cover William’s where they still rested on his thigh, and his eyes were filled with wonder and with awe.

“Theodore?” Heinrich prompted, extracting his hand. He rubbed at his fingers and looked pained as he did so.

“I-“ Theodore began, then seemed to collect himself, though he did not move his hand from atop William’s. “I think it’s healed. I’m dizzy. Thirsty. But I feel no pain.”

“Praise be to God,” Heinrich whispered, and he stared at the twins – first William and then Thomas behind him, hand still on his shoulder. “He does work miracles.”

“Praise be to _God_ ,” Thomas interjected, as he felt William’s body begin to slide towards bonelessness before him. A well-placed knee in his back would keep him upright for a few minutes more, long enough for him to stand and walk again without displaying his weakness. “The miracle is His.”

Frederick sank to his knees, bracing himself upon the hilt of his sword which stood in the hard-packed earth like a cross. The others were no less shaken; Gerhardt had taken a step back, his eyes not leaving them.

Gregory was the first to recover from his shock, and he sat heavily in a chair by Theodore’s head. “Lead us in prayer, friar,” he commanded, and it was the first time any of them had spoken the nickname not with derision but with something akin to respect.

William nodded, slowly, and drew back his hands with what looked like great reluctance. He was filthy, his skin red with mingled blood and wine, but he seemed not to notice. He bowed his head and all within the tent followed suit, and recited the words of a rite he did not mean.

Thomas did not care for prayers in any language, Latin least of all, and so he was the one to look up when all other heads should have been down.

William was still praying, but his eyes were fixed on Theodore. Theodore was staring back at him, awe transmuted like alchemy into something more intimate and dangerous altogether.

They were lodestones locked upon each other, transfixed and colliding.

Thomas looked upon them and felt nothing at all but dread. 

**Author's Note:**

> In some areas in Europe in the middle ages and early modern period, children – from aristocratic families especially, though not exclusively – would be sent to live with foster families as part of their training. Boys would often be sent away as young as seven, while girls were more likely to stay with their parents until after puberty.
> 
> This fostering system placed children with higher-ranking families, increased social connections, supported kinship and affiliate networks and contributed to a child’s education and socialization.
> 
> Boys like Theodore and his friends would be sent as pages to the local court or into the households of knights to learn martial skills and politics, while families angled to get their girls accepted as ladies in waiting to highly-ranked ladies. This placed them in good positions to make advantageous marriages.
> 
> Somewhere between the ages of twelve and fourteen, a fostered page would become a squire. His education would move from academics and social skills to armour maintenance, riding and weapon use, and basic battle training. Once a squire was deemed ready to advance to knighthood, he would purify his soul by fasting and praying for a full night before taking the chivalric oaths and being publically dubbed a knight.
> 
> Knights were expected to be able to read and write, speak Latin and French, fight on and off horseback with sword and lance (among other weapons), battle tactics, hawking, as well as dance, sing or play an instrument, and play chess and/or backgammon.
> 
>  
> 
> \- “Drache” (dra- che) is German for ‘dragon,’ a reference to Theodore’s heraldry.
> 
> \- "Saracen" was a derogatory term used by Western Christians to refer to Arab Muslims. Originally meant as a racial descriptor for one section of the Roman Empire, by the twelfth century that term had come to specifically refer to Muslims with darker skin. It was also understood to include idolatry, lack of personal or social hygiene, and general savagery. It is not a nice or neutral word, and is especially not a generic 'quaint' or 'olde timey' word for Muslim or Arab.
> 
> \- A hauberk is a chain mail tunic, often made long enough to cover the legs down to the mid-thigh. Plate armor did not come into popular use in Europe until the late thirteenth century; prior to that, armor was mostly made of linked metal rings, sometimes with larger metal plates incorporated.
> 
> \- Arrow spoons are a real thing. Ow. War arrows were often made so that the heads were attached to the shafts with beeswax. The heat of the body around an embedded arrow would soften the wax, so that pulling out the shaft would leave the arrowhead embedded. Arrow spoons were developed by Arab physicians and quickly adopted by the west. They were inserted to cup the arrowhead as a kind of shield, to enable the chirurgeon (“surgeon”) to remove the entire thing without causing too much additional damage.
> 
> \- A lodestone is a naturally magnetized piece of rock, strong enough to act as a compass magnet. The term ‘lodestone’ comes from the old English for ‘leading stone.’
> 
> \- Alcohol was pretty much your only anesthetic, as well as your only decent disinfectant. Have fun storming the castle!


End file.
